


The Resurrection

by misscandyhart



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misscandyhart/pseuds/misscandyhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on post-Reichenbach angst. Sherlock shows up eleven months after the fall. John is broken and Sherlock struggles with how to put him back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Things were a lot quieter in John's world these days. He kept busy, he kept fit, he did anything he could to not think about the events of eleven months ago. Did anything he could to not think about _him_. He lived alone, but not at Baker Street. Even his brief visit there to pack up his things - their things - had been indescribably painful. It had been like Sherlock's essence was haunting the place, like he was there but not there. John could almost feel the high strung energy, could almost hear the strokes of violin. But John had finally accepted that Sherlock would never be there again. For a long time he had refused to speak to anyone about it. He had refused to accept that he was gone...his friend...his world. Finally he had started seeing his therapist again, for the first time since he had met Sherlock. He hadn't needed to see her back then— Sherlock had come along and turned his whole world upside down in the most wonderful way possible.

But things were different now. He was starting to accept that, and was even starting to be able to feel grateful for the time they had spent together instead of grieving the loss of future adventures. He'd had to start working again but he was still helping Lestrade with cases— Sherlock had taught him well and John was more often than not able to add valuable insight that would have otherwise gone overlooked. He owed Sherlock that, thought John. He would never let the Science of Deduction die.

It was another quiet night in for John. He tried to get out as often as possible so he didn't have to think, frequently going for a pint or six with Stamford or Lestrade, but tonight it was too cold and he was too exhausted. He'd tried dating a couple of times too but had been met with no more success than he'd had when he'd lived with Sherlock. Somewhere inside, John registered the fact that whether Sherlock was alive or dead, his mind and heart would always be too full of him to allow room for anyone else. Strangely, the thought didn't bother him all that much. He took a sip of his cup of tea and tried to focus on the crap tellie show that was on in front of him, but the storyline slipped away from his mind as soon as it had entered it, as it always did these days.

He absently changed the channel and quickly skipped past a detective show. He couldn't watch those, not anymore. Not without Sherlock sitting beside him, or curled up in his favourite chair, deducing the characters and motivations and spoiling the 'mystery' before the episode was even ten minutes through. John turned his attention away from the television, leaving it on as background noise, to the book on the coffee table beside him. He had found it on the top of a stack of books on Sherlock's beside table the day after... the fall...and had been unable to part with it ever since. It was a thick, hardcover book on the topic of beekeeping. When John had first found it he couldn't help but snort with laughter at the mental picture it conjured up of Sherlock in bee keeping garb, desperately trying to convince John to let him turn their storage cupboard into a beehive. He might have even let him.

John spent a few minutes thumbing through the pages as he sipped at his tea. He'd already read the book from start to finish, obsessing to the point of seriously considering getting some bees himself, but sometimes he liked to scan through the pictures and read the captions, imagining Sherlock's voice spouting out the streams of information in the self-assured, arrogant way he used to do. It was a pointless distraction but was of some comfort all the same. A knock at the door interrupted John's light daydream and he set down his cup of tea, rose and crossed the length of the small flat to pull the door open. And then every effort he had made to rebuild something of a life suddenly became pointless, suddenly crumbled around him and fell defeated at his feet. Because he couldn't possibly be seeing what, or rather who, he was seeing.

John stared at Sherlock, his brain completely incapable of getting past the loop in which Sherlock couldn't possibly be here, because Sherlock was dead. Gone. Forever. Yet here he stood, his impressive stature lightly silhouetted against the door frame of John's neat flat. Still perfect, still every bit as fucking beautiful as before, though admittedly slightly leaner if it were possible, and his face holding more fatigue and emotion than John had ever seen on it before. John felt his lungs contract impossibly tight and very nearly choked on his own shallow breath as his brain struggled to catch up. Finally Sherlock spoke— the long familiar, deep voice pulling John from his internal struggle.

"Hi," was all Sherlock managed, his voice hesitant and almost afraid.

He gave John a tiny smile and John felt a pang in his heart at the complete vulnerability of the man standing before him. But following just as quickly came a violent spike of the anger that he needed to cope with this situation, and he involuntarily let out a short bark of laughter.

"Hi? Really? That's all you have to say to me after being gone for almost a year, during which time everyone, including me, thought that you were dead?"

His words got gradually louder as he spoke, and when he finished the word "dead" rang in the heavy silence that greeted it.

Sherlock swallowed.

"I have to start somewhere, right?" he replied weakly.

John found himself even more annoyed to recognise that Sherlock was acting nothing like how John remembered him. Where was the strong, defiant, arrogant sod that he had known and...he forced his thoughts away from the word. What had happened to that man? John couldn't help but feel that this whole thing would be easier if he were to reappear.

John just stared for another long moment, not trusting himself to speak. But finally, Sherlock's unreadable expression drove him to it.

"Where the _hell_ have you even been?" he asked angrily then turned away, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

"You know what, don't even answer that. There's absolutely nothing you can say to..."

He trailed off, another surge of anger hitting him powerfully, and before he knew it he was rushing at Sherlock, grabbing his suit jacket, pushing him roughly against the wall of the small living room.

"Did you think about me even once?" John demanded, shaking him hard.

Sherlock's face was a mixture of surprise and hurt and something approaching relief, but whether it was relief at John's outpouring of emotion or relief that Sherlock was finally getting what his guilt told him he deserved, John wasn't sure. John stared into those incredible blue eyes that had once been his whole world and tried to fight the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Anger was battling hurt and betrayal and something else that he couldn't even identify. And yet, the close proximity to the man that he had been dreaming about, missing, craving, for the past eleven months was causing his heart to race in a way that had nothing to do with his anger. His senses were filled with everything irrevocably Sherlock: his subtle, strangely appealing scent, his thin yet muscular body beneath John's hands, the pale warm skin beneath the layers of clothing.

There was another long moment where neither of them seemed to breathe, then the wall seemed to break and John was lunging forward, pulling Sherlock to him and crushing their lips together in a bruising kiss. It only took Sherlock a second to recover from his shock and start to respond, his desperation to be forgiven evident.

"John, I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered hoarsely between fevered kisses.

"Shut up, Sherlock, just shut up."

John entwined his fingers in Sherlock's curls, which were if possible even more out of control than before, his brain too far gone at this point to acknowledge anything but the feel of Sherlock's lips against his, the taste of him, the smell of him, the fact that he was here in his arms, not dead, not decaying, but alive and here and so god damn beautiful, and that he had missed him more than he'd ever thought was possible and—

"John…please..."

Sherlock's voice was a throaty whimper laced with raw pain and more than a hint of vulnerability, and it seemed to shake John out of the trap that his mind had fallen into.

He pulled away from Sherlock's lips but didn't release his grip on his shoulders, something within him already aching at the loss of contact, and felt a harsh tremor rock his body. John's mind battled desperately between the urge to hit him again and kiss him again, but before he could decide on either his body decided for him. He broke down into the tears that would never come before, into harsh agonising sobs that made him wonder who was making that god awful noise, until he vaguely realised that it was himself. The next thing he knew was that Sherlock was pulling him forward, that he was burying his face in the gap between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, feeling the too-sharp collarbones and the soft fabric of his expensive suit jacket, threading his fingers inextricably through Sherlock's hair. He was only partially aware of Sherlock rubbing firm yet soothing circles into his back, of the meaningless whispers coming from both of them.

"God Sherlock, do you have any idea how much I've missed you?" John managed to choke out, his face still buried and his voice muffled.

He felt the other man nod against him, remaining silent, never pausing in his rubbing of John's back. To John it somehow felt like both a minute and an eternity that the two of them stood there, half collapsed against the lounge room wall, clinging to each other as though their lives depended on it, which in a way, they did.

Slowly, John regained enough of a sense of his surroundings to become vaguely aware that Sherlock was handling all of this rather well for someone who neither expressed nor understood emotion. He briefly wondered whether Sherlock's experiences in the past months had caused some kind of fundamental change, or whether perhaps he was just struggling through John's intense fragility because he felt he had no choice. John's breathing slowly returned to something approaching normal but still neither of them moved, wrapped in each other's arms, John's hands still tangled in Sherlock's curls and his mind a swirling mass of confusion. It was a long time before either of them spoke, but finally Sherlock broke the silence in a soft voice that was full of hesitation and fear like John had never heard it before.

"John? Will you be coming home...to Baker Street?"

John drew in a deep, shaky breath. He wasn't ready to think about this right now, not yet.

"I don't think I can," he said carefully, not trusting his own voice.

Sherlock said nothing but John heard the poorly concealed sharp intake of breath, felt the tiny nod against him.

He forced himself to pull away from Sherlock, only now feeling self-conscious about the state he was in and how he must look. Sherlock was staring at the ground, and for that brief moment John almost felt again that the man in front of him was a complete stranger. And in some ways he was. John took another deep, steadying breath.

"I think you should go, Sherlock," he heard himself say in a voice that sounded as wrecked as he felt.

He found that he wanted to sound angry - he wanted to sound furious - yet somehow all he was managing was weary detachment. Sherlock's head snapped up at his tone, his eyes watching him carefully, mind no doubt racing to deduce John's thoughts, trying to understand them, trying to make it okay.

"John, please," he said, his voice tight with forced restraint.

He moved towards John, took John's hands in his own.

"Tell me what I can do to make things right."

John looked up and met Sherlock's eyes. Those so often cold and calculating eyes that seemed to change colour every time John saw them. But they weren't cold now— they were green and blue and infinitely complex, the intensity of the great mind behind them radiating through, making them glow. It reminded John of every case they'd ever had, of every delicious spark of danger, every argument and insult, every awkward yet heartfelt apology, every fit of giggles they'd spontaneously broken into, every time they'd looked into each other's eyes and had maybe seen something that wasn't supposed to be there because they were flatmates, partners in crime, friends...

"There's nothing you can do," John replied coldly, abruptly cutting off the thoughts in his head. "Just go. I'll...talk to you tomorrow."

Sherlock didn't move, his gaze dropping to the floor once more.

"I did it for you, John," he said finally, his voice so low that John could barely hear it. "Moriarty and Moran would never have let you live. They would have taken you away from me, and I couldn't..."

Sherlock's voice trailed off helplessly, but he seemed determined to finish.

"I couldn't bear it if something happened to you. So I left. I killed them..." – John's head snapped up at this – "And I wasn't afraid. But now I am. Because I cannot lose you."

John said nothing and turned his gaze back to his feet, finding that he couldn't look up. He didn't want to see the intensity in those eyes. When he finally did, Sherlock was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

John sat in the familiar, comfortable chair of his therapist's office, clutching a mug of coffee and sipping at its contents as though it were some kind of miracle cure. He needed the caffeine very much after another restless night. He had experienced a great many of those over the past months, but this time it was for an altogether new reason. Nothing made sense to him anymore. It had taken him months to even slightly adjust to a world without Sherlock and now here he was back again?

"He's back," John had bluntly informed his therapist, Celine, that morning.

He wasn't altogether surprised at her initial reaction— the way she had tactfully tried to determine whether John had finally gone off the deep end and had started hallucinating. He had managed to explain that Sherlock was not dead, had never been dead, that the whole thing had been another of Sherlock's elaborate games. John was tired of games. He sighed, not sure of what to say next. If he were being perfectly honest with himself he doubted that there was anything she could say to make him feel even remotely better. But he was flat out of options, and he felt that if he didn't talk to someone about it…well, he wasn't sure what he was going to do.

He'd spent months bottling up his emotions in a way that almost put even Sherlock to shame, speaking only briefly and occasionally to Harry, Stamford, Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. Talking to Mrs Hudson was simultaneously comforting and heartbreaking, because it was like looking into a mirror. Most of the time, seeing his broken, empty shell reflected back at him for prolonged periods of time was just too painful, so he had taken to meeting with her only briefly and limiting their conversation to matters that weren't Sherlock. It somehow left him with little to say. He had received several missed calls from her on his mobile after Sherlock had left the previous evening and two text messages to "call her urgently, regarding Sherlock" but he hadn't been able to bring himself to speak to her. He had deduced from her texts and Sherlock's mention of whether John would be 'coming home to Baker Street' that she had been his next port of call. He confirmed that theory this morning when he finally plucked up the courage to call Mrs Hudson back. He could tell before she had even said it— the emotion in her voice reflected John's all too familiar feelings of intense bewilderment but also complete and utter relief and joy.

" _How_ is he back, John? You told me last year that you saw him fall, you saw his dead body," Celine now said carefully, after she had accepted that Sherlock was indeed back.

John shook his head and drew in a deep breath.

"I don't know."

He paused.

"I don't know how he's back. But I also can't rely on what I saw that day. What I thought I saw that day".

He stopped, the words becoming thick in his throat at the memory of the day he had seen Sherlock Holmes fall.

"I know that it's hard for you to talk about that day, John, but it's important that you try. I think you'll find that it helps."

John nodded and took another deep breath, had another gulp of coffee.

"I can't be sure of what I saw. As I've said before, the whole thing is a complete blur."

"Are you able to take me through it again?"

John didn't reply for a moment. It had been eleven months but that day still haunted him like it was yesterday. Though his memory of it was hazy, tainted by shock and disbelief and a million other things, it didn't stop his mind from replaying it every single night whilst he slept. It was far worse than any of the dreams of Afghanistan had ever been.

"I got out of the cab opposite St Bart's, tried calling Sherlock again. Got through this time. Finally. He started talking about how he was a fraud, trying to convince me that when we first met he knew what he knew because he'd researched me."

He stopped again, because the memory of the words still hurt him after all this time. He had asked himself why so many times. Why would Sherlock say such a thing and why why why would he jump from that rooftop? His belief in Sherlock had never wavered even slightly and his belief that the great man, his great man, had killed himself was even less. Another deep, shuddering breath. _Get it together, John_.

"I told him I didn't believe him, but it didn't make any difference. He said goodbye, then he jumped."

He swallowed hard, focusing on his hands on his knees, the way his fingers gripped the fabric of his trousers tightly.

"And what happened after he jumped?" Celine prompted gently.

"I panicked and ran towards him. Got hit by someone on a bicycle. Fell over and hit my head. Got back up and kept running towards him. Saw his body on the pavement. Saw all the blood. By the time I got there it was too late. I was too late. I tried to take his pulse, but he was gone. I don't remember much after that. They took him away, they pulled me away, wouldn't let me try to help. But it was him. I _saw_ him."

He knew that his account of the event sounded cold and automatic. The truth was that he had been over it so many times in his head and out loud that there was no other way it _could_ sound. He didn't add the part where Mycroft had shown up, done his best to console him through his own very obvious distress. He had never mentioned the part where Mycroft had taken him aside and given him Sherlock's scarf, knowing that John needed something that had been Sherlock's…something more personal than his possessions at 221B. It didn't get much more personal than an item of clothing tainted with his best friend's spilt blood. John both hated and loved Mycroft for it, because he hadn't been able to part with it ever since, hadn't even been able to wash it. He knew the attachment he had formed was unhealthy, and had therefore kept the information from his therapist. But he also knew that he didn't care an ounce so long as it provided him with even just a sliver of comfort. It still had Sherlock's scent attached to it, and John clung to it at night as though it could genuinly bring him back.

John dragged his mind back to the present, where Celine was contemplating him with a thoughtful expression, making a short entry on her notepad. When she looked back up at him, her expression had changed to what John could only assume was curiosity.

"So Sherlock managed to convince his best friend that he was dead. How do you think he managed that?"

John shrugged.

"I haven't the faintest idea, to be honest."

***

He was slightly annoyed with himself, had been ever since he had asked Sherlock to leave. He had so many questions to ask about what had happened, about how Sherlock was alive, about Moriarty and his men, about Mycroft and everyone else they knew. Had Mycroft known all this time? The thought caused anger to lick at John's insides hungrily. Mycroft had seemed so genuinely grief stricken, so plagued with guilt. But then again, he was a Holmes, and if he knew one thing about the Holmes' it was that they were never to be underestimated. But he hadn't asked Sherlock anything— just his presence in John's life after all these months of angst had been more than enough to process. John wasn't as strong as he once was. He was barely even a whole person anymore. And so, after Sherlock had left John had collapsed into his armchair and hadn't moved again for a long time, his mind reeling and still not quite believing that it hadn't all been another of his dreams (nightmares?) where Sherlock had come back to him, normally only to be taken away again just as quickly. Finally a noise coming from the direction of the coffee table had roused John back into conscious thought and he had vaguely looked around and realised that it was his phone. A text message.

_It was good to see you tonight, John. I'll be here whenever you're ready -SH_

Sherlock's new number then. The message had been simple, direct, and to the point, like the detective himself so often was. But John had known that 'I'll be here' was an assurance that Sherlock wasn't going away again, at least not anytime soon. And that had been enough for the time being. John had put the phone back down without saving Sherlock's name back into it and had fallen into a restless slumber, too exhausted to move from his armchair.

***

He relayed a summarised version of this to Celine, getting the impression that the rest of the session was going to be no easier than the first part had been.

"If you decide to see him again do you know what you might want to say? Or what you might need to say?"

John's mind was immediately drawn back to a particularly painful session not long after Sherlock's…fall. As the rain had fallen with reckless abandon outside the window of the neat office, she had asked John what it was that he hadn't said to Sherlock. He hadn't been able to tell her. It was too raw and infinitely too personal and he doubted that he would ever be able to express it within his own mind, let alone to anyone else. But a couple of months later, the topic had come up again.

"John, I feel as though we keep coming back to these things that you never got the chance to say to Sherlock. Do you think we can talk about that?"

John had sighed noncommittally, but had eventually nodded his consent.

"You say that Sherlock was your best friend."

John had nodded again. He had found that his ability to utilise the English language had been suddenly and almost completely stunted during these early counseling sessions. For the most part he forced out strangled phrases, and occasionally full sentences, whilst trying not to cry.

"Was he _just_ your best friend, John? Or was he more than that?"

John had stared at her hard for a moment and had been both frustrated and relieved to find that her expression was very deliberately unreadable, but also completely non-judgmental.

"Are you asking me if I was in love with him?" he had asked after a long silence.

She hadn't answered his question but had given him a look that strongly suggested that this was exactly the question she was asking but didn't want to push him further than he was capable of being pushed. John had sighed heavily, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him again. Although he had already known the answer, had somewhere inside always known the answer, it had seemed to take him a long time to form any words.

"Yes. Okay, yes. You want to hear me say it, I'll say it. I, John-straight-as-a-plank-Watson, was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Am in love with Sherlock Holmes."

At least he could say his name now without his voice cracking, he had thought. A trivial fact to distract him from the flood of relief he had felt at finally saying the words he had been storing for so long. He hadn't been sure when exactly he'd realised the truth— it had just sort of happened one day and the knowledge had settled upon him with as much certainty as the accuracy of one of Sherlock's deductions, or as the fact that the earth revolves around the sun.

Snapping back to the present, John struggled with how to address her question.

"If you're suggesting that I tell him…" he paused "…how I...feel, then no. He wouldn't understand and it would only drive him further away."

He took another deep, fortifying breath before continuing.

"I can't tell him that. I can never tell him that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea regarding Sherlock's scarf was gratuitously stolen from season two of Queer as Folk (US), so credit to whoever came up with that particular piece of heartbreak *fist shake*


	3. Chapter 3

John sat in a small corner table of the quiet pub he'd chosen as a meeting venue, tapping the table nervously with the fingers of one hand and clutching a pint of beer in the other. He absently realised that he always seemed to have a drink in his hand…he supposed it was another comfort, another way of coping, another addiction. It didn't seem to matter whether it was alcoholic or not, though he had to admit that he was consuming more of that these past eleven months than he had in a long time. After his counseling session he had managed to pluck up the courage to answer Sherlock's text.

_Thank you -John_

He wasn't sure what he was thanking Sherlock for. For coming back? For the means to be able to contact him? For the assurance that Sherlock would be there? For giving him space? John didn't know. All he'd known was that he wasn't ready to see Sherlock face to face again, not yet, but he had also known that he couldn't just let Sherlock suffer with no clue of John's thoughts. Then he'd almost snorted with laughter at his naive assumption that Sherlock could ever have no clue about something, especially when it came to his thoughts. Had he forgotten who he was dealing with?

The day after that he had decided that the longer he waited, the worse things would be. But he didn't want Sherlock to come to his flat again. He'd discussed it with Celine and had identified that he'd felt too overwhelmed and trapped when Sherlock had shown up there. And there was certainly no way he was ready for a meeting at 221B. To his mind, the place seemed to be a physical representation of everything he had been through in the past eleven months, a place that he had been forced to accept held nothing but painful memories and empty promises of someone who was gone from his world forever. Celine had suggested that they meet in a neutral environment and John had quickly decided that this was a good idea.

So he had texted Sherlock the time and place and now here he was— early and anticipating and waiting. Waiting for him, waiting for resolution, waiting for an explanation, maybe for his world to be rebuilt. No, he dared not hope for that. John looked up just as Sherlock entered the room and his heart throbbed painfully at the sight of the man he loved, who he had only seen twice in almost a full year. He was still amazed that Sherlock looked almost exactly the same as he always had when he himself felt that he had changed so much. Sherlock's hair was the same, his impressive stature as ever before, the same billowing coat with the collar that he would always turn up, much to John's amusement. Not the same scarf though, John knew. His new one was darker and distinctly less covered in blood. John shuddered ever so slightly at the memory of Sherlock's broken body, the image that hadn't faded from his mind in the past eleven months. Sherlock ordered a drink from the bar and spotted John from across the room, walked slowly towards him, no doubt trying to deduce John's state of mind from his appearance and choice of venue. If he started that John decided that he was just going to walk away. He somehow felt that Sherlock didn't have a right to know so much about him when he felt that he knew almost nothing about Sherlock.

Thankfully, Sherlock seemed determined to do nothing of the sort. And suddenly John realised that he had been wrong— Sherlock was not exactly the same as he had been. There was something indefinably altered about his eyes- it was like he there was some crucial element missing, perhaps a touch of the usual arrogance, John thought.  
Sherlock smiled at John as he removed his coat and scarf and sat down at the opposite side of the small table.  
"How are you, John?" he questioned lightly, looking genuinely concerned.  
John considered him for a moment before answering.  
"I'm…okay. And I am incredibly relieved that you're back, just in case you didn't get that," John replied, with a slight quirk of his lip.  
Sherlock gave him a tiny grin in return.  
"Thank you for meeting with me. I was worried that…" - he trailed off, staring down at his drink - "that you wouldn't want to."  
Then he looked back up and their eyes locked in an unspoken exchange of everything that was between them and everything they weren't saying. John cleared his throat and took a sip of his pint.

"I really just want answers, Sherlock. I need them."  
"That's almost exactly what Mrs Hudson said."

"Are you back at Baker Street then?" Sherlock didn't answer right away, instead looked down again at the contents of his pint glass as though they were fascinating to him.

"No. Mrs Hudson is...well, she's angry with me, John. Quite understandably. So I've been staying at a hotel on Glentworth Street." He sniffed. "She'll come around. I need to lay low for awhile anyway, for obvious reasons."

His words were spoken casually enough but John could tell that Sherlock was hurt. A sudden rush of empathy for the man flooded through him and he hated himself for it.

"She's glad to have you back, Sherlock. We all are. It's a miracle."

Sherlock considered him for a moment, his expression unreadable, then he took his first sip of the drink in front of him.

"So I see you've found a new place," he started, in a voice of forced calm.

John sighed.

"Can we not do this please?"

Sherlock glared at him, and John could practically hear the gears grinding in his head.

"Do what exactly?" he replied, sounding genuinely confused.

"Talk about these trivial things that don't matter. Yes I have a new place. It was too hard to go home. I went there once to get my stuff. I couldn't even go through yours, not really, I let Mrs Hudson take care of that."

Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes and John briefly wondered if he was being too harsh. Why was this so fucking hard? He almost smiled at that— he knew why, he knew exactly why. He sighed heavily and reached across the small table to touch Sherlock's hand.

"I just mean that it doesn't matter anymore. It's in the past, it's done."

Sherlock looked up and met his eyes and John was surprised to see the intensity that had sparked within them.

"It does matter, John. It matters a lot. Everything you have been through matters," he said forcefully.

John drew back, nodded.

"I just mean that I would rather hear about you, about where you've been and what you've been doing all these months."

Sherlock nodded and seemed to mentally steel himself.

"Okay, I'll tell you. Just...don't hate me," he finally said, and the vulnerability in his voice sent another pang straight through John's heart.

"I don't hate you, Sherlock. I could never hate you."

"Wait until you hear what I have to say, and then tell me that," Sherlock grimly, his low voice, his eyes not meeting John's.

"Just tell me. I need to know."

Sherlock sighed deeply and lent back, steepling his fingers in front of his face.

"Before I tell you, please believe me when I say that I did it all for you…to protect you."

His voice was so sincere that John didn't doubt him, but he said nothing.

"I knew that my life was in danger. And I also knew that if I told you, you would never leave me and yours would be too. So I invented the story about Mrs Hudson, knowing that you would go running."

Sherlock paused here, carefully watching John's reaction.

John was looking at the table, his fingers gripping its edge tightly.

"I was so angry with you," John replied in a voice of forced calm.

Sherlock lent forward, his eyes full of pain and confusion.

"I know. But it was the only way, John. I never would have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you," he said in a low voice.

John considered him for a moment before speaking again.

"Okay, so what happened then?"

"I went up to the roof where I met Moriarty," he continued, snapping back to his all-business demeanor so quickly that John found it a little alarming.

"We chatted for awhile which was all very nice until he casually informed me that he had snipers at the ready trained on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade." He paused. "My only three friends in the world, as he so eloquently phrased it."

"I thought you only had one," John replied quietly after a moment, a slight smirk on his face.

Sherlock let out a small laugh, instantly recalling their trip to Dartmoor and the fight that he and John had gotten into. Well, the fight that he'd enforced upon John.

"One best friend," he clarified with a smile.

John smiled back, momentarily transported back to a simpler time when he and Sherlock coexisted happily (for the most part), solving cases and slipping in and out of danger. But all too soon, the issues between them came flooding back and John felt his smile fade as he sat back in his chair, taking another large gulp of his drink and noting the resultant expression that was undeniably disappointment on Sherlock's face.

"Right so you knew that the three of us were in danger, what happened then?"

It took Sherlock a while to answer, and John suspected that he was getting close to the part that he didn't want to tell John.

"Moriarty wanted me to kill myself, thus concluding and confirming his story. I knew that I needed him to call off his snipers, and thought I'd found a way to do it but then..."

He paused again, jaw set and face turning stony cold.

"...he shot himself in the head. And I knew then that I would have to go through with my plan."

John made no attempt to conceal the shock of this last revelation.

"Moriarty's dead?"

"Of course he's dead, do you really think I'd be sitting here talking to you if he weren't? Honestly, John, sometimes I think that if you'd just use your..."

Sherlock abruptly cut himself off with a look that John could only describe as sheepish, and John couldn't help but wish that he'd carried out his insult...this polite, cautious Sherlock was unsettling.

"Sorry," Sherlock said quickly. "Force of habit."

John gave him a small smile.

"Its okay. You were saying?"

"With Moriarty dead I had no choice but to carry out my plan to fake my own death."

John said nothing for a moment, thinking intently.

"But, Sherlock...I saw you fall. I saw your body, broken, covered with blood. I took your pulse."

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Think very carefully about what exactly you saw, John. I went to great lengths to convince you that was you saw was real. But it wasn't me on that sidewalk, it wasn't me who you buried."

"How did you do it, Sherlock?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"It wasn't just me," Sherlock replied. "I had help."

"Who?"

"My homeless network. Mycroft. Molly Hooper."

John considered this for a moment, his mind reeling, barely taking in the fact that Mycroft (the complete god damn bastard, his mind automatically added) had presumably known that Sherlock was alive all this time. He struggled to put his anger aside, still desperate to find out more, but he knew that his breathing was becoming erratic, his heart rate increasing. Sherlock was watching him carefully, but continued his explanation.

"We organised a truck carrying soft enough materials to break my fall…"

Here John cut him off.

"But I saw you hit the ground…" he argued weakly, breathlessly.

"No. You never saw me hit the ground. Think very carefully about that. I asked you to stay in a certain position, do you remember?"

John nodded vaguely, looking pale.

"I made sure that you would see me fall but not land. You saw what I needed you to see. I asked Molly to place a body disguised as me on the sidewalk. And with Mycroft's help she was able to forge the death and autopsy records."

"No," John said forcefully, shaking his head. "No. No. It was you, I _saw_ you, I…"

He gulped in a lungful of air and Sherlock reached across the table to touch his hand soothingly, his eyes full of worry and regret and pity. John pulled his hand away and Sherlock sighed and sat back slightly.

"John, do you remember the drug we were exposed to at Dartmoor? The one that made us see what we expected to see…what we most feared?"

John said nothing for a moment, then everything clicked into place and his face changed to one of utter disbelief, of his world crumbling around him for the millionth time that week.

"The man on the bicycle…"

Sherlock nodded minutely.

"I knew I could count on your state of disbelief and shock and the fact that you were dazed from a slight head injury to add to the confusion that the drug would offer. I hoped that it would be enough to convince you. It was the only way to ensure your protection whilst I dealt with Moriarty's men. I'm sorry, John."

Sherlock hung his head, looking almost as destroyed as John felt, and when he looked back up he strongly suspected that John was falling apart.

"Are you okay?" he asked cautiously. "I know that it's a lot to take in."

John nodded hurriedly, struggling to get a handle on his traitorous body whose reactions were betraying him. But then again, he thought, was his mind really coping a lot better? He was reeling, unable to take in a single fragment of the information Sherlock had just given him, letting the swarm of knowledge overwhelm him and take him over despite his better efforts.

"I think I should take you upstairs to your flat," Sherlock said gently.

John shook his head again.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, just leave me and I'll be fine…"

"I'm not leaving you, John. Come on," he replied, rising from his chair and gently but firmly taking John's arm and leading him towards the exit.

John allowed himself to be lead, a numb feeling spreading over both mind and body, clinging to Sherlock's arm and leaning against him slightly. Sherlock's familiar frame against his own was undeniably comforting as they made their way down the quiet street in silence and entered John's flat. Sherlock deposited John in his armchair and crouched in front of him, taking John's hands in his own.

"Its okay, John. Just breathe."

John struggled to do as Sherlock instructed, and finally managed to get his breathing somewhat back to normal. He had hoped that the panic attacks had gone for good, but apparently Sherlock was still more than capable of inducing them, whether dead or alive. When Sherlock was suitably convinced that John wasn't going to pass out he retired to the kitchen to make tea and was grateful to see that John was looking much more like himself when he returned, two mugs in hand. He handed one to John, who smiled weakly and took a sip.

"Just the way I like it," he said approvingly, almost sadly.

He moved to the small couch and gestured for Sherlock to sit beside him, and they drank their tea in near silence, John still trying to process everything.

"Do you need me to go?" Sherlock enquired, his tone suggesting that he was scared of the answer.

"No," John replied quickly. "I mean…I'd like you to stay for awhile. Please."

"Anything you want."

John switched on the television, wondering what had happened to the rude, stubborn, disagreeable, almost child-like Sherlock Holmes he had dealt with so often during their time at Baker Street. He decided not to question it, at least not right now. For the time being it was enough to just sit close to one another, drinking tea and watching a detective show on the tellie, John simultaneously frustrated and amused by Sherlock's frequent interruptions to enlighten him with little titbits of information that completely ruined the plot. It was just like old times.


	4. Chapter 4

_Moving back into 221B today. Housewarming party? -SH_

John couldn't help but crack a small smile, and he considered the text briefly before shooting off his reply.

_Glad that Mrs Hudson has forgiven you. I'll drop by after work today. See you then -J_

John tried not to think about his decision as he got ready to leave for work. He had a short shift at the local surgery where he had taken a GP role a few months after Sherlock had gone. It wasn't exciting but the people were nice and it was a good distraction from his thoughts. He wasn't entirely sure that he was ready to go back to 221B, even for a visit. But then again, the 'getting it over with' approach that he'd taken with his second meeting with Sherlock had worked out fairly well for him. Yes, it had been hard to hear everything that Sherlock had to say, and yes it had sort of induced a panic attack. But he felt significantly lighter, even if he still wasn't sure that he had entirely processed the information. He believed Sherlock and he believed in Sherlock. If Sherlock said that there had been no other way, then John was sure it was true. The problem was that it didn't make the last eleven months any easier. It didn't make him wish any less that Sherlock had told him his plan beforehand and saved him from months of questioning and agony. But that just wasn't how Sherlock Holmes operated.

John's time at work went slowly and he spent most of it thinking about Sherlock, not that this was anything new. So he was relieved but slightly nervous when the end of his shift finally arrived and he hailed a taxi to take him to the oh-so-familiar flat on Baker Street. He asked the driver to stop part of the way down the street so that he could pick up a nice bottle of red, and as he walked the rest of the length to their old flat he found himself second guessing that decision, his decision to come here, every decision he had made since Sherlock had come back. He firmly told himself to stop thinking so much, to relax, to breathe…this was _Sherlock_ for god's sake. His best friend, his flatmate, his partner. John found himself standing outside 221B, wondering whether he should ring the bell, which had apparently been fixed. It felt strange, but then again so did just walking in. Luckily he was spared the decision when the door swung open in front of him and Sherlock stood in its frame, wearing dark trousers but no jacket and the purple shirt that John had always secretly thought looked far too good on him. They greeted each other, things still noticeably tense between them, and Sherlock lead the way down the familiar hallway to the staircase.

"Mrs Hudson in?" John asked, looking around as they climbed the stairs.

"No, she has a date this evening," Sherlock replied, looking down at John with a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

John laughed lightly.

"Oh dear, who is it this time? Not another one that has two wives and as many girlfriends?"

"Actually, no," Sherlock replied with a smile, as they reached the flat and entered the living room. "This one seems to have some self control at least…still a complete idiot, mind you, but then again most people are."

John laughed again but felt his chest tighten as they entered the room and he took note of just how similar everything looked. A lot of Sherlock's possessions had been packed up by Mrs Hudson after his 'death' but she had evidently been unable to give them away, just as she had been unable to rent the flat out to anyone new when it came down to it. John quickly noted that the couch, armchair, coffee table and the union jack pillow that he had always been fond of were still here. But not the skull. John had the skull sitting on the chest of drawers in his bedroom, along with the beekeeping book and a few other items that he had been unable to part with. He would have to bring them back now, he decided. That also explained the reappearance of the shirt- Mrs Hudson must have kept some of Sherlock's particularly treasured items of clothing. John found himself disturbingly grateful to her for keeping that particular item. Sherlock watched him carefully but kept quiet, evidently not sure exactly how to proceed and waiting for John to make the next move.

"I brought wine," John said suddenly, waving the bottle vaguely.

"Excellent, I'll get some glasses," Sherlock answered, retreating to the kitchen that was much tidier than John was used to when he and Sherlock had shared it.

Evidently Sherlock hadn't had time to mess it up with his experiments yet. John sat down in his favourite armchair and tried to take it all in. It was entirely surreal to be back here, sitting in his chair with Sherlock in the kitchen like no amount of time had passed at all. Could he somehow just pretend that none of this had happened and slip back into the same happy life once again?

He was dragged from his thoughts when Sherlock re-entered the room and reached for the bottle of wine, opening it and pouring them both a generous serve. Then he turned to John and handed one glass to him. John accepted it with a "cheers" and took a large sip. He didn't quite know what to say or what to do so he settled for saying nothing, but he felt Sherlock's intense gaze upon him. Just then he noticed Sherlock's violin in its usual case resting on the coffee table, and he had a sudden overwhelming desire to hear Sherlock play again.

"Will you play for me?" he asked softly, gesturing towards the violin.

Sherlock smiled.

"If you really want me to. I'm a bit out of practice though— I've barely picked one up in a year."

"I'm sure you're as brilliant as ever. I'd love to hear you play. I've missed it."

"And here I was always worried that it would keep you awake."

"I never minded."

And once again their eyes locked, once again the deluge of unspoken words flowed between them and they both looked away, Sherlock reaching for his violin. He played an intense, sad, but hauntingly beautiful piece of music that John didn't recognise, and he wondered if it was another that Sherlock had composed himself. He wanted to close his eyes, to really feel the music, but he couldn't force himself with such an exquisite sight before him. Sherlock's body was relaxed, his arms moving as though the music was simply moving through them, but his face held an indescribable expression of sadness, regret and something else…resolution, perhaps. Wild strands of dark hair fell onto his forehead delicately, his lips were parted ever so slightly, and the soft light of the lamp was highlighting his striking cheekbones and the intricate tendons of his neck in a way that was nothing short of stunning.

His eyes were closed, but part way through the piece they fluttered open and met John's with an intensity that John wasn't sure how to handle, but neither of them looked away, and Sherlock kept playing and then—  
"John, I can't stand seeing you like this," Sherlock said abruptly, ceasing his gentle, mournful strokes of the instrument in his hands and placing it down on the table once more. "I want to make things right, but you're not making it easy for me. I know you're hurt but—"

"Hurt?" John cut him off, his tone incredulous, taken aback by this sudden change of pace. "Hurt, Sherlock, doesn't even _begin_ to cover it. You don't know what it was like for me. You were my best friend and my world and you saved my life in so many ways and then you were gone and I was alone again only this time I knew what I was missing out on, what my life could be…what it was…with you."

John looked down, his breath hitching in his throat, tears pricking his eyes and threatening to fall.

"I do know what it was like for you, because I was there," Sherlock replied quietly. "I was away but I came back every now and then to watch over you, to make sure you were okay. It killed me to see you that way, so much so that I almost contacted you so many times to tell you the truth. But I couldn't. I couldn't because as much as you were hurting, you were alive and well and safe, and that was better than you being dead. So don't think that this has been easy for me."

Sherlock half choked on the last few words, his throat tight and several large tears escaping from his eyes and rolling down his porcelain face. He didn't bother trying to hide them.

"I was so broken, Sherlock. I think I might still be. And I was so alone...without you," John confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, no longer caring that tears were now rolling down his cheeks freely.

At that Sherlock pulled him into a hug, wrapping his long arms around John's slightly trembling frame, bringing his lips to John's forehead and placing a gentle kiss there.

"You're not alone anymore, John. I'm back and I'm not going anywhere."

John remained silent, wondering how he could ever trust those words now. He lent into Sherlock's embrace, his arms wrapping easily around the detective's hips, as Sherlock continued to stroke John's hair and gently wipe a tear from his cheek.

"Move back in with me. Everything can be the way it was," Sherlock murmured into John's hair and John could hear the anxiety in his soft voice.

John sighed and pulled away from Sherlock, wiping at the tears with the sleeve of his jumper. If only it was that simple.

"It's not…that simple. I wish it were. I know that you did what you did to protect me, but you have to understand that this is a lot to take in and I can't just…pick up where we left off."

"And where was that exactly?" Sherlock asked, looking straight at John now.

John licked his lips, unsure of what to say now that he'd been put on the spot.

"I don't know," he replied hesitantly, honestly.

His heart was hammering in his chest. This was his opportunity. This was the time to say the words that he'd never thought he'd be able to say to Sherlock's face, the words that he never thought Sherlock would hear. Dare he say them? Would it make things even worse? He felt a small amount of relief when he realised that they couldn't be much worse. If he weren't completely honest with Sherlock now, he may as well just walk away and wash his hands of the whole thing. But he couldn't walk away, he could never do that.

"I…became aware of something whilst you were...away. But it's not something I can share with you. Things are complicated enough between us"

"Please, John?"

John paused and let the final internal debate run its course, knowing the inevitable outcome but not quite able to hate the fact that he could never say no to Sherlock. He took a deep breath then leapt into the oblivion with absolutely no idea of where he would end up.

"I realised that...I love you. That I'm _in_ love with you."

For a long and agonizing moment, Sherlock said nothing.

"Please say something, Sherlock."

"I thought you were straight," Sherlock replied immediately and John didn't miss the smirk in his voice despite his admirable effort at concealing it from his expression.

John chuckled lightly at this, amazed to feel some of his tension washing away at Sherlock's continued attempts to make jokes.

"Yeah well...so did I. And yet here I am and here you are..."

He trailed off, with no clue of what to say next.

"John, I..."

Apparently it wasn't just him then. John watched carefully as Sherlock looked at the ground, his heart still racing. Had he really just confessed his love for his male best friend, flat mate and crime solving partner who had supposedly been dead for the past year? And who was a self confessed sociopath? Was he mad? He must be mad.

"You know what? Forget it. Forget I said anything. I'm just so glad to have you back. Honestly, Sherlock" he said hurriedly, turning away and awkwardly rubbing the back of his head.

But before he could move away he felt something stop him— Sherlock had caught his arm and was pulling him lightly but forcefully back towards him, and although he couldn't really say how it happened, Sherlock was suddenly kissing him, tenderly, beautifully, softly. John's eyes closed involuntarily, though he was still terrified to close them ever again out of fear that Sherlock would simply vanish, and allowed himself to drown in the kiss. A moment later, Sherlock's hand was coming up to lightly brush John's cheek and his tongue was sliding into John's mouth, his actions less gentle than before. Then, just as things were finally getting interesting, Sherlock broke away, his breathing heavy, and rested his forehead against John's. Then he whispered John's name and suddenly John couldn't be too upset about the loss of contact because it meant that he got to hear his name uttered with such importance by the most amazing man he had ever known.

"You're the only person who's ever made me _feel_ anything. But I'm still trying to work out exactly what those feelings are. So maybe until I do that it would be better if we didn't..."

But Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, because John abruptly cut him off with a long, hard kiss.

"Or we could just..." Sherlock tried again, before recapturing John's lips with more ferocity than before.

They managed to make it as far as the couch before their legs gave out on them.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock and John toppled onto the couch, still clinging to one another, and John tried to land gracefully on top, half succeeding and splaying his hands on either side of Sherlock to support his weight. He lent down towards the man beneath him and kissed him hard, their tongues sliding against each other, his teeth nipping softly at Sherlock's full lower lip. Sherlock reached for the bottom of John's jumper and pulled it over his head, throwing it aside and taking advantage of the easier access by sliding his warm hands part way up John's back. John moaned softly into Sherlock's mouth and couldn't even bring himself to feel self-conscious about it.

John found himself pausing in between kisses to kiss Sherlock's face, whispering absently as he did so.

"God Sherlock, are you really here, am I really kissing you, touching you?"

The questions didn't need an answer, but Sherlock gave one anyway.

"Yes I'm here and I'm yours John, I'm all yours, I've only ever been yours."

And then John pulled Sherlock's mouth back to his and was touching every bit of Sherlock he could reach, hastily and clumsily unbuttoning the purple shirt and moving the silky fabric aside to feel the perfect, sensuous skin underneath. Then he was trailing kisses down Sherlock's neck, intoxicated by his scent, and dragging his teeth across those too-prominent collar bones. Sherlock moaned in a way that drove John crazy. He couldn't remember ever wanting someone more. He froze, momentarily stunned by the plethora of feelings for this man beneath him- he simultaneously wanted to devour him and never take his eyes off him again. Sherlock noticed John's confusion and reached up to gently stroke his face.

"Are you alright, John?" he asked softly.

John just nodded, unable to speak, communicating with his eyes once again. And Sherlock seemed to get the message- that John was more than alright, that John was fan-bloody-tastic.

And then the intensity kicked up another notch, Sherlock's nimble fingers making quick work of John's shirt buttons and sliding his hands over the skin of John's chest. John moaned softly, his lips recapturing Sherlock's in a passionate, frenzied kiss. Both shirtless now, their hands explored each others bodies freely, fingers grazing nipples and hot lips sliding over warm flesh. John found himself involuntarily grinding against Sherlock's hips, feeling his hardness through his trousers and he reached for the button, wanting more, _needing_ more, but he stopped himself...somehow.

"You haven't done this before, have you Sherlock?" he asked breathlessly, his fingers tracing Sherlock's hip bones and his eyes trying to read his face.

Sherlock didn't look surprised or bothered by the question.

"No, I haven't. But I want to. With you."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and answered him as quickly and impatiently as his current state of arousal would allow for.

"Yes, John, I'm sure, and in fact I'm sure that I've never been so sure about anything in my life…well maybe that's not quite true but…"

John shut him up with another kiss.

His answer was more than good enough for John, and he continued unbuttoning Sherlock's trousers then unzipped them and slid his hand inside, lightly stroking Sherlock's impressive erection through the silk of his boxer shorts. Sherlock groaned, pushing his hips towards John's hand.

"John, please..."

His voice was deeper than John had ever heard it and it all but drove him crazy. He moved his hand away, eliciting a barely audible whimper from Sherlock, and pushed Sherlock's trousers and shorts down to give him better access.

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's length, stroking him gently, and the thought flashed through him that it was strange that this didn't feel strange. He'd never even come close to doing anything sexual with another man, and yet this felt right. It felt _better_ than right. It was surreal and wonderful and mind blowing in the most exquisite way possible. He knew that he would never rush Sherlock into anything, but the thought of doing more than this made him shiver with desire. Sherlock moaned softly into John's mouth and John had to fight the urge to come right then and there. As John continued the movement of his hand, noting Sherlock's reactions and adjusting accordingly, he looked down at him and felt his breath hitch in his throat at the sight of Sherlock naked beneath him, his body a flawless sculpture of creamy pale skin and subtlety toned muscles, his curls more wild than John had ever seen them, his pupils blown wide and causing his dark eyes to glitter, his lips parted in a way that made John want to kiss him senseless. So that's what he did. He finally pulled away, brushing a lock of hair from Sherlock's forehead and kissing him there gently.

"God you're beautiful."

And before too long, Sherlock was moaning and whispering incoherent nothings under his breath and John could sense that he was getting close. But something was holding him back.

"I want you to come for me, Sherlock," John whispered into his ear, nipping at the lobe and licking his neck. "I want to see you, feel you..."

Sherlock's eyes snapped closed and John knew that he was holding back, then he was pulling away, his breath jagged and his voice low.

"John stop, I can't...I can't, it's too much," he managed to say in a broken voice, burying his face in John's neck and sucking in a deep, shaky breath.

John ceased his movements immediately, instead bringing his hand up to cup Sherlock's face and stroke his cheek. He moved to Sherlock's side and wrapped his other arm around him, holding him close.

"Shh it's okay, Sherlock, it's okay."

Sherlock drew in another long, shuddery breath.

"I'm sorry, John," he said into John's neck, his voice muffled.

"Shh don't apologise, it's fine, I shouldn't have rushed you."

"No it's not you, it felt wonderful, I just got...overwhelmed with all the new data...too many new sensations...I couldn't take it all in, and I panicked," he explained slowly, sounding more like himself now.

John nodded against him, his fingers carding through Sherlock's curls, still holding him close.

"We'll just take things slowly, see how that goes," John suggested, feeling Sherlock nod against him and kiss his neck lightly.

He pulled away to look at Sherlock, who still looked divinely disheveled, and kissed him slowly, softly, trying to reassure him that everything was fine and that he didn't care how long he had to wait, that this was enough. Sherlock responded immediately, deepening the kiss and reaching for John's trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping them, pushing both trousers and shorts aside to free John's hard cock from the strained material. He wrapped his hand around John's hardness and started to stroke and John groaned unrestrainedly into Sherlock's mouth.

"Fuck, Sherlock, that feels amazing."

Sherlock continued the movement and John found that he could think of nothing other than the incredible feel of Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around him, his exquisitely soft lips against his own...it was perfect and he was drowning in the sensation, dying the most sublime death. He strongly suspected that he wasn't going to last long at this rate, especially not when Sherlock started whispering in his ear in a particularly deep tone of voice that drove John half mad with pleasure.

"Touch me, John."

John complied immediately, one hand still tangled in Sherlock's hair, the other moving to his hard cock, careful to start his movements off slowly. But before long both of them were practically panting, moaning, cursing, between frenzied kisses.

"Okay?" John managed to gasp, hovering so very close to the edge.

Sherlock nodded emphatically, thrusting into John's hand and pulling him in for a passionate kiss. He reached for John's free hand and interlaced John's fingers with his own.

"John, I can't hold on, I'm going to.."

He gasped mid sentence, pulling John somehow even closer as he finally surrendered to his climax, rocking into John's hand and crying out his name as he came hard. John held him close as he fell to pieces, simultaneously aroused and awed to bear witness to the strongest, most in control man he had ever met coming apart in such a spectacular way, and then he was joining him, coming harder than he ever had before, almost screaming Sherlock's name, still grasping Sherlock's hand as his orgasm ripped through him, aware of no one and nothing in the world other than the man he was so deliciously entangled with.

An indefinable amount of minutes passed before either of them could speak or even do anything other than breathe and cling to one another, letting their awareness and surroundings slowly slip back into place. Finally, John drew Sherlock in for a soft kiss, bringing their still entwined hands up to where their hearts were still beating rapidly beside one another. His mind wildly flashed through all the times they had been beside one another, sharing an erratic heartbeat from a chase or escape or a life threatening situation. This was so different and yet so similar…the sense of danger, the adrenaline, the excitement. But there was so much more this time. So much more than he could have ever even imagined.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," he whispered as his heavy eyelids finally won the battle and drifted closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so that chapter was basically all porn *whistles* I REGRET NOTHING. Slightly shorter chapter but I hope you all enjoyed it. I don't write a lot of smut to be honest so hopefully it was to everyone's...satisfaction (pun very much intended).


	6. Chapter 6

It was awhile before either of them were coherent enough to speak again, doing nothing other than lying languidly in each others arms, softly stroking and ghosting kisses over warm skin.

"Let's go to bed, John," Sherlock finally muttered in a sleepy voice, and John nodded against him.

They dazedly rose off the couch, still holding on to one another, half halfheartedly cleaning up the mess they had made, not bothering to put their clothes back on, and stumbling to Sherlock's room. They did all this without a word- there seemed to be an understanding that nothing needed to be said, at least not right now. They fell into bed, kissing lazily, and John settled comfortably onto Sherlock's chest. Sherlock let his fingers spider through John's hair and John relaxed into his touch, feeling content for the first time since Sherlock had disappeared, and fell quickly asleep.

***

"John. John! Wake up, it's just a nightmare. Wake up, John, it's okay, I'm here. I've got you."

John struggled to suck enough air into his lungs, hearing Sherlock's voice even though his vision was still tainted with the image of his lifeless, blood covered body, the dead eyes that had had their light extinguished. That was always the worst part. John let out a raw sob and reached out for Sherlock desperately, clinging to him, burying his face in the detective's bare chest. As he sucked in huge lungfuls of air, battling to regain control, he felt Sherlock stroke his hair soothingly, kiss his forehead, whisper words of comfort.

"Shh, it's not real, it's okay now."

John shook his head from his position in Sherlock's arms.

"It's not okay," he replied in a shaky voice.

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, still stroking John's hair, holding him tightly.

"I know. And I'm sorry. God I'm so sorry."

His voice was strained with emotion and his grip on John's good shoulder increased to the point of almost being painful.

"Please forgive me."

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath, and John said nothing for a moment, still haunted by the shadow of his nightmare.

"I want to," he confessed, relieved to find his voice had improved from the weak croak of moments before. "I'm trying to."

He felt Sherlock nod against his head, resuming his gentle stroking of John's hair and shoulders.

"Thank you, John."

And with that, John drifted back to sleep, protected somewhat from the terrible nightmares by the presence of his angel.

***

Sherlock lay still beneath John, his arms wrapped around him and his mind whirring. What the hell was he going to do? He'd very clearly broken John. Shattered him into a thousand pieces. The man who was unbreakable, the man who had stood up for him fiercely more times than he could count, the man who fought and was willing to die for his country, willing to die for Sherlock. And Sherlock had no idea how he was going to put him back together. Had he already started doing that? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about any of this and the uncertainty was foreign and monumentally frustrating- is this how normal people felt all the time? His mind still couldn't process John's confession. John loved him? After everything Sherlock had put him through? He wasn't sure how to take it, didn't have any comparable data to be able to solve this puzzle. He closed his eyes and went to his mind palace, searching for the room that held information about love, not surprised to find it much more sparse than others. Names of famous poets, artists and composers floated through his mind, a plethora of romantic comedy titles he'd seen advertised whose singular plot line he had long since deleted in disgust, that love was a motivator, what he understood to be different kinds of love.

His mind flashed to Irene Adler. The Woman. The only person who had ever come close to making him feel this confused and…lost. He respected her, was fascinated by her in ways that he couldn't quite place, he unarguably felt connected to her…but love her? No, he didn't think so. At least not like that. Their relationship was tremendously complex but one that was based largely on plays of power. They challenged each other, teased each other, and all but destroyed one another in a way that even Sherlock could recognise would make for a _particularly_ noxious relationship. He moved on and a vague idea of Mycroft floated around his mind. He supposed that Mycroft loved him, somewhere under a thousand layers of cold indifference, of putting almost everything before him. He was there when Sherlock needed him, had been since they were children, but Sherlock had long since recognised that this did not include emotional need. He took a moment to acknowledge this before moving on. Then he came to Mrs Hudson's name. That one made more sense. She was like the mother he'd never had - the mothers he had read and heard about as a young child - the ones who fussed over their sons even though the children claimed to hate it, who cooked them breakfast so that they knew they had eaten at least one nutritious meal that day, who picked up after them even though it drove them up the wall, because there was no other way to be. The mothers who hugged their sons, knew when something was wrong, supported them and encouraged them and wanted them to be happy. The mothers who were always and unfailingly there.

And then there was John. John Hamish Watson who had changed his world so unrecognisably that he could barely remember what it had been without him. Rather, he didn't want to remember. He'd experienced life without John far too recently, and he shuddered at the memory of what an awful world it had been. John stirred from his place on Sherlock's chest, sleepily stroking his hand down the skin of Sherlock's chest before settling back into sleep. Sherlock considered his sleeping face for a moment, finding it absolutely perfect. What was this man to him? He went through the list. His best friend, there was no question there. His partner, most definitely. He was certain that he'd done the best work of his life when John was at his side. His lover? He was certainly attracted to John, though annoyingly he couldn't quite place exactly when this had happened. It had just appeared with a certainty that Sherlock knew better than to question because he had long since learnt to always trust his instinct. Overall, Sherlock felt that he had enough information to deduce that he did in fact love John. That much was fairly clear. But what kind of love did he have? He was frustrated to find that his mind was drawing a blank, having no real basis for comparison when it came to romantic love. Irritated, Sherlock retreated from this particular room of his mind palace, realising that he needed more data, and crossed the mental hall to enter his John Watson room. He supposed that it was saying something that John had an entire room to himself. And it wasn't a small room either, yet it was somehow filled to the brim with information and memories. The flood of data was almost overwhelming, and he focused on the physical feel of the man against him as he tried to process it all.

As he waded through the memories of he and John solving cases together, of arguing and laughing and simply _existing_ at Baker Street, it suddenly occurred to him that John was his whole world. He was everything that had, or ever would, matter to him. Almost the only thing that mattered to him, aside from his work. He knew then that he had his answer, but something was holding him back. The whole idea of a relationship was, and always had been, problematic to him. He'd never been in one and had absolutely no evidence to suggest that he wouldn't be terrible at it. There were few things in life that Sherlock would admit to being terrible at, but he strongly suspected that this was one of them. Surely John would eventually tire of his mood swings, his tantrums when he was bored, his single mindedness whilst he was heavily entrenched in a case. And then he would leave and Sherlock would be alone again, only this time he would know what he was missing. The thought seemed to strike him right through his heart, even though he knew that was silly to think that heart-wrenching sentiments could manifest themselves into physical symptoms. But what he knew and what he felt had become blurred in a way that they never had before he met John. Did that mean he should give it a chance? He didn't have the answer to that question, a feeling he was gradually becoming more and more used to when it came to John, and he found it immensely frustrating.

***

It was early afternoon and Sherlock found himself knocking on Mrs Hudson's door with a very specific purpose in mind.

"Mrs Hudson, can I, uh, talk to you about something?" he asked when she opened the door, not sounding remotely like himself even to his own ears.

"Well of course, love, anything at all."

The thought had occurred to Sherlock that things might be helped by talking to someone about it, seeking advice from someone who knew more about love than he did. Although this theoretically should have been a very long list, he found that when it came to people he knew the list was rather short. Mycroft was even more of an emotional cripple than he was...there was his mother, but no, the thought of talking to her about something so personal had all but caused him to squirm with embarrassment. He felt a similar sense of intense discomfort at the thought of mentioning it to Lestrade, the only other male he knew who he considered to be a friend, not least of which because Lestrade was still struggling with the fact that Sherlock was back and was still clearly guilt ridden over the role he'd been forced to play in the whole thing. So Sherlock had finally come to the conclusion that Mrs Hudson was perhaps his only option. John had gone back to his flat, presumably to attempt to process everything that had happened between them the night before. Sherlock had kissed him goodbye, trying to put as much reassurance into the kiss as possible, and they had agreed to speak again that evening.

"Well perhaps not _anything_ at all," Mrs Hudson was saying "you know how it bothers me when you tell me the particularly gruesome details of the murder victims in the cases you're investigating, and when you talk about all those nasty experiments that you're always-"

"Mrs Hudson, please," Sherlock interrupted, already starting to seriously rethink this whole plan.

"Sorry, Sherlock dear, went off on a bit of a tangent there. Let me make us a nice cup of tea and we'll have a chat. What was it that you wanted to talk about?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, watching as Mrs Hudson busied herself in the kitchen, boiling water and putting tea bags and sugar into mugs.

"It's about John," Sherlock answered, deciding that it was best just to get straight to the point.

"You two haven't had another one of your rows have you?" she replied, tsk tsk-ing, as she brought the tea over to the table. "You boys, always fighting..."

"No, not a row," Sherlock said, interrupting her again. "Rather the opposite, really," he confessed quietly, hoping that his cheeks didn't look as hot as they felt.

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows over her mug of tea but Sherlock didn't miss the smile that she tried to hide.

"What I meant to say is that things are...different between us. Since I returned."

"Well it's about time if you ask me. John's been mad about you ever since he met you. The poor thing was lost without you, it was just heartbreaking to watch."

Sherlock felt his heart pang inexplicably once again at the image of grieving, broken John that his mind was so fond of replaying for him. He quickly brushed it away- his guilt wasn't going to fix things. But his actions could.

"I missed him too. More than I ever thought I could miss anyone. Well, I've never really missed someone before," Sherlock confessed quietly.

Mrs Hudson took another sip of her tea, observing him closely in a way that made him feel exposed and uncomfortable. Is this how he made others feel every time he deduced them?

"I suppose it's all a bit overwhelming for you, love. All a bit new?"

"Exactly," Sherlock replied, relieved that she seemed to understand without him having to say everything.

"I'm sure John understands that. He knows you better than you think, you know."

"I have a feeling that you might be right about that, Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock leant back in his chair, taking another sip of tea before speaking again, his words slow and careful.

"I suppose what I'm really worried about is that I'll only disappoint him."

Mrs Hudson nodded understandingly and reached across the table to pat Sherlock's hand.

"John might be a bit of a romantic and occasionally wear his heart on his sleeve...but he's not silly, Sherlock. He won't expect you to change just because your relationship has. And he won't want you to either, I'd wager," she explained softly, her warm, sincere eyes meeting Sherlock's.

Sherlock nodded, taking in her words, his mind racing.

"But what if we try and it fails?" He paused, looking down into his mug. "I don't want to loose him again. I can't loose him again."

Mrs Hudson petted his arm affectionately and spoke to him in a soft, sincere tone of voice.

"Then that's something you can worry about if you have to, but honestly, Sherlock, you boys have been through much worse together and survived. I think you owe it to yourselves to give it a chance."

Sherlock sat back and steepled his fingers in front of him, thinking hard. A moment later, he was hastily getting to his feet and draining the rest of his tea.

"Thank you for the advice, Mrs Hudson, you've been very helpful."

He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before he was out the door, darting quickly up the stairs. Mrs Hudson shook her head but couldn't quite suppress a grin as she cleared up the kitchen. For the first time in a year, Baker Street finally felt _right_.


	7. Chapter 7

_Baker Street tonight? We need to talk -SH_

John read over Sherlock's text with a slight frown on his face. He suspected that Sherlock had always been blissfully free from those four words and the certain doom that they implied. Therefore it was likely that coming from Sherlock the words weren't an ominous warning of bad things to come, so John tried to relax. Everything had been fine, better than fine, just that morning…how wrong could they possibly have gone in just a few short hours? He groaned internally as he reminded himself who he was dealing with. Anything could happen when it was to do with Sherlock Holmes. Not that he himself wasn't struggling to understand and process everything that had gone on between them in the last twenty four hours. He was utterly confused, yet at the same time filled with a clarity of thought that was astounding. He loved Sherlock, had long since realised that, but everything seemed to be moving so fast. He knew that things always did with Sherlock. Like when he'd first met him and trusted him inherently almost immediately- something that had really never happened to him before. In fact, he had been sure enough of their connection to kill a man to protect Sherlock, without even thinking twice. So yes, he had to admit that life with the eccentric consulting detective didn't exactly move at a normal pace.

Then there was the small matter that he was straight, or had always thought of himself as such. He'd never had a reason not to, having never before been interested in another man in that way. Yet here he was, completely driven by an overwhelming passion and desire that he hadn't felt since he was a teenager. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with his therapist one particular day not too long after he'd finally plucked up the courage to admit that he was in love with Sherlock.

"Sexuality is a complicated thing, John," she had said in her sensible yet reassuring way. "It's not always black and white. In fact, there is a lot of grey area for most people. Just because you find yourself having these feelings towards Sherlock it doesn't mean that you have to label yourself in any particular way. It's entirely possible for people to suddenly find themselves attracted to someone of the same sex even though they never have before and may never again."

John had nodded, still finding it difficult to talk about. He hadn't been entirely able to place what the problem was. Was he worried about what other people would think? He didn't think that was it- most people he and Sherlock had met automatically assumed that they were a couple anyway. It happened with such alarming regularity that John had given up correcting them, finding that it bothered him less and less each time. So if he wasn't bothered by that, was he bothered by what he thought of himself? For awhile he had pushed the question deep down, despairing in the fact that he would never be able to truly find out since the one person who invoked those feelings was gone forever. When that hadn't worked he had spent months debating with himself and interrogating his own feelings to the point that by the time Sherlock had reappeared he had almost convinced himself that he had imagined the whole attraction. Almost, but not quite. And then Sherlock had turned up and shattered all pretense into a million broken shards. John's feelings for the man were as strong as ever before and no matter how much he wanted to hate Sherlock, wanted to punish him for what he had put him through, all he could do was gravitate towards him as though some kind of magnetism were drawing him there.

He finished up a few things around the flat then headed out to Baker Street once again, unsure of what to expect. But whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn't the sight of Mycroft Holmes sitting in John's favourite arm chair, looking every bit as unapproachable and perfectly indifferent as he had before Sherlock had left. John was momentarily taken aback by his chilly demeanor, forgetting that this was common of the older Holmes brother. He had seen quite a different side to Mycroft whilst Sherlock had been away- one that was warmer, almost caring, and infinitely more human. He felt his own heart instantly turn to stone as he remembered that Mycroft had played his part in Sherlock's plan, that his compassion and apparent grief had all been a sort of despicable game. For a brief moment he considered turning around and walking back down the stairs, running away from this horrible reminder of everything that had happened in the past year, but a glance at Sherlock's face stopped him. An apology was written all over his features, along with the same traces of regret and sorrow that John had been glimpsing since Sherlock had returned. The expression was raw and unchecked, and it took John a moment to recover from its intensity. He knew this day was coming, knew that there was only so long he could avoid contact with Mycroft. He swallowed hard.

Mycroft rose from his seat, umbrella handle gripped in his left hand, and approached John with an overly polite smile that made John want to smack him over the head with his own umbrella.

"John. So good to see you," Mycroft said in his impeccable accent, his voice as smooth and controlled as John had ever heard it, and extended a hand towards John to shake his hand.

John ignored it and stared directly into Mycroft's eyes, his expression stony.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

Mycroft turned away, his body language displaying his apparent distaste that John was choosing to be so difficult.

"There are certain things that need to be explained. Sherlock thought that it might be easier if I were here, since I played such a large role in the subject of our discussions."

John turned to Sherlock with a question on his face. He couldn't help feeling betrayed- like the Holmes brothers were somehow ganging up on him. Sherlock spoke as though he were reading John's mind. Again.

"John, I'm sorry. I don't want this to feel like a confrontation but I want to be completely honest with you now that things are…different…between us."

He flushed ever so slightly at the last part, shooting Mycroft a quick glance as though he expected him to laugh or say something insulting. But Mycroft continued to stare at his shoes as though their highly polished surface were fascinating to him, apparently uninterested in his brother's obvious discomfort.

"And why exactly does he need to be here?" John shot back, already feeling his patience wearing thin.

"Because he's right- he was involved and therefore it will be easier if we explain together," Sherlock said reluctantly.

"Fine, whatever, let's just get this over with then," John replied sharply, causing Sherlock's expression to abruptly change to one of hurt.

John instantly regretted being speaking so harshly, but Mycroft's very presence here was grating on him. He glanced back meaningfully, trying to apologise without words. Sherlock seemed to read the message, for his face relaxed slightly and he sat down on the sofa, gesturing for John to sit beside him. Mycroft resumed his position in the armchair and John briefly wondered how anyone could make a chair as comfortable as that look so much the opposite. He crossed his legs and folded his hands neatly on his lap, observing John once again in his usual shrewd manner.

"There's also another reason I'm here today, John. I wanted to apologise for everything you have been through during these past months-" John snorted in protest, but Mycroft ignored him -"It was…most regrettable. But entirely necessary as I'm sure you will see."

John said nothing, almost completely convinced that he certainly would not see. He stared back at Mycroft, trying to put as much contempt into his gaze as possible. Mycroft stared back passively, showing no evidence of being at all fazed by John's anger. It was as though they were strangers once again. Mycroft turned to Sherlock with the same smug little smile that John had learnt he used during particularly unpleasant dealings, and cleared his throat politely.

"Sherlock, would you like to begin?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, his hands unusually twitchy and fiddly, and looked at John.

"I told you about my plan to fake my own death, about how I did it and why-" He paused and John nodded minutely -"but I didn't tell you how far back it went. I knew for a long time that my life was in danger and that yours would be too, so I started taking steps towards a plan that I had hoped I would never have to put into action. But when Moriarty resurfaced for the final time I knew that I would have to."

"What do you mean how far back it went?" John asked after a moment, feeling confused already.

"I…started forming the plans just after Irene Adler disappeared for the last time. It was the perfect opportunity to carry out the first step, which was to formulate some kind of test to determine how capable you would be of lying about someone's whereabouts if required."

Sherlock looked to Mycroft.

"So Sherlock asked me to approach you with the story that Irene Adler was beheaded, but to suggest that we keep the information from him."

John stared between the two brothers uncomprehendingly. Then their meaning dawned on him. Sherlock had decided that John's lie wasn't convincing enough, that he couldn't trust him with the truth about his eventual 'death'. This was the reason John had suffered for months. There was a sudden gush of words at the tip of his tongue, but he didn't seem able to express any of them.

"So Irene Adler is alive then?" he said finally in a quiet tone. It wasn't really a question, but was something he wanted confirmation on nonetheless.

"Yes," Sherlock replied softly.

Of course she is, John thought hopelessly.

"Where is she?"

"I…can't say."

"Do you still see her?"

John's question was sharp, and he wondered why he was asking. Was this really the issue right now?

"No."

John nodded in acknowledgment before moving on.

"So...I failed the test then, did I?"

Sherlock looked apologetic again.

"There were very clear indications that you were lying. Not ones that would necessarily be picked up by an ordinary person but to people trained to read the signs, yes, you would have failed."

John knew that Sherlock was refraining from detailing every little mistake he'd made and he found himself oddly appreciative, despite how upset he felt with Sherlock right now.

"In any case, I felt after that incident that I had somewhat underestimated Moriarty and his reach. I knew that if I didn't act he would and that we would eventually both be killed in the process. So I took matters into my own hands."

"We knew that the time had come," Mycroft took over smoothly. "Sherlock asked me to feed Moriarty the information about himself, knowing that Moriarty would use it to destroy him. I was reluctant, as you can imagine, but it was the only way. So I complied, then I released him, and Sherlock and I awaited the fall that we knew was inevitable."

Mycroft paused, apparently waiting for John to say something. John declined- his mind drowning in the flood of new information and his heart horrified that Mycroft could speak so casually and coldly about his own flesh and blood. But then again, it wasn't like this was news to him.

"I also managed to procure a small amount of the drug that you had both been exposed to at Dartmoor," the older Holmes brother continued calmly. "I knew that it would come in handy at some point…a suspicion that was proven correct, as Sherlock has already explained to you."

"Congratulations," John replied flatly, recovering from his mutism.

Mycroft chose to ignore that.

"And the rest you already know."

"No I don't bloody well know! Sherlock's told me almost nothing of what happened whilst he was away."

This time it was Sherlock who spoke up.

"Moriarty had a wide network of contacts and I haven't yet been able to rid the world of every single one of them. I've taken care of the most dangerous threats, of course, but there will be others. There are always others. And I know I can't protect you from them all. But the less you know about what happened the better."

John let it go for the moment, too mentally drained to bother arguing the point. Besides, there was a concern that was pressing on his mind much more urgently. He turned to Mycroft.

"And all this time Sherlock was gone, you didn't think of helping him? Of going with him? You're his older brother, you're supposed to protect him, for god's sake!"

"John, as you know, I am a very important man. I could not simply disappear for months on end for the sake of my baby brother's vendettas. I knew that he was more than capable of handling things on his own and that he would contact me for assistance if and when required, which he did."

John glanced at Sherlock and was slightly puzzled by the hurt he could see on his face. He could tell that Sherlock was trying hard to conceal it, but Sherlock wasn't the only one who could read people. For anther long moment there was nothing but silence.

"He didn't want to go through with it, you know," Mycroft said suddenly.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock interrupted, his tone a warning that Mycroft wholeheartedly ignored.

"At several points I had to convince him that it really was the best thing to do…that it was in your best interest and for the greater good."

John's glance shifted from Mycroft to Sherlock, noting his pained expression, and back again.

"But the job isn't done yet," Mycroft continued. "Several members of Moriarty's web are still at large. And there is still the matter of clearing Sherlock's name. I was hoping that we would be able to rely on your assistance, John."

John very nearly laughed in disbelief.

"First of all, if I help with anything its going to be for Sherlock, not for you, and secondly I'm not sure right now that I want to help Sherlock, given that I'm obviously not to be trusted even though I've done everything he ever asked of me without question."

He sucked in a deep breath, his lungs feeling desperately starved of oxygen, and stared at his knees. He couldn't look either of them in the eye, but he wasn't sure if the cause was anger or hurt. Sherlock placed his hand over John's but said nothing. John found that he didn't particularly want Sherlock touching him right now, but he also didn't want to pull away. The silence in the room stretched out for what felt like minutes. Finally, Mycroft got to his feet, collecting his briefcase and umbrella as he did so.

"You two obviously have matters to discuss, so I will leave you in peace."

He paused and seemed to struggle with himself over something. And at that moment, Sherlock's phone rang loudly, causing all three of them to very nearly jump in surprise. Sherlock pulled it from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and glanced at it quickly.

"Lestrade," he muttered. "I'd better take this."

And with an apologetic glance he got to his feet and walked into the kitchen, speaking quietly into his phone. John stood and turned his attention back to Mycroft, feeling drained.

"I am truly sorry, John."

John sighed, shook his head, and stared Mycroft straight in the eyes.

"Your apology means nothing to me, Mycroft, because I don't for a minute believe that it is, or ever has been, genuine."

For a moment Mycroft said nothing, but John didn't miss the flash of something like regret that crossed his usually frozen features. He found himself curious despite his current feelings towards the man.

"I assure you that it is."

Another loaded pause.

"I hope that you can find it within yourself to forgive my brother. He never wanted to go through with any of this, it was purely a last resort."

He looked to his feet again, fingers fidgeting with his umbrella in a way that was most uncharacteristic, and when he spoke again his voice was soft and low and more human than John had heard it since Sherlock had left.

"I used to think that he was like me…incapable of emotion, of compassion…of love. But he's not. Or at least not since he met you. He _needs_ you, John. You make him a whole person. He's let his guard down in a way that I've never seen before and he's gone to the ends of the earth to protect you. I know that he would do it a thousand times over. Don't let it have all been for nothing."

John said nothing and he didn't look up- he knew that if he did his answer would be written all over his face, and he didn't want Mycroft to know just how very much Sherlock meant to him. He sensed rather than saw Mycroft leave the room and descend down the stairs, and when he looked back up Sherlock was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him closely. His expression made John's heart throb painfully.

"John," Sherlock said carefully, the simple stating of his name seeming to carry on its back a thousand unspoken thoughts.

"Not right now. I can't do this, not again."

"I know," Sherlock replied quietly. "And I will leave you to your thoughts, but first please know that everything I did was motivated by my feelings for you. I just wanted you to be safe."

John nodded once. He knew that. It wasn't what was bothering him.

"You should have trusted me, Sherlock. I've never given you a reason not to. And the whole time you were gone I never doubted you for a minute, never believed a word anyone said about you. Because I _trusted_ you. And that's what hurts the most- that you clearly didn't feel the same way. That after everything we've been through together you still left me in the dark."

Sherlock remained silent but stepped towards John, his hand moving to caress the side of John's face, his body moving in to hold him. And John wanted to accept the comfort, wanted nothing more than to reach up and allow Sherlock to capture his lips, to loose himself in the splendor of sensation and emotion. But he couldn't, not right now. He pushed Sherlock away gently, trying to ignore his wounded expression, and headed for the stairs.

"I have to go."

"John, please," Sherlock cried out, catching John's arm.

John shook it free a little more forcefully than intended, and made his way down the stairs and out the door without looking back.


	8. Chapter 8

John shifted in his seat, took a sip of his tea and sucked in a long breath. He was sitting in his therapist's office once again, vaguely wondering if he was the most messed up of her patients. It was unlikely, he decided, but his mad relationship with a certain consulting detective must certainly have earned him a high place on the list.

"I'd like to talk about what Sherlock told you, how it made you feel," she was saying to him.

John pulled himself from his thoughts and considered this. He didn't know how to feel anymore- his mind seemed full of nothing but thick heavy clouds of confusion and conflicting thoughts and emotions. Over a week had passed since the conversation with Sherlock and Mycroft, the one that had turned his life upside down. This had occurred so many times that John figured that his world must be the right way up again soon and things would start to make sense. Sherlock had had the good sense to not push John, aside from a short text that once again implied he was giving John space and would be there when he was ready. But John didn't know when he would be ready. He'd decided against rushing straight to his therapists office, trying instead to sort through the mess in his head alone, but he now found himself lost with no idea of where to go.

"I…understand why he did what he did. I understand his motivations behind it, that he wanted me to be safe. I believe that, I really do." He paused, searching for the right words. "But I can't seem to get past the feeling of betrayal, the…disappointment that he didn't trust me with this."

"And do you _want_ to get past it, John?"

"I think I do. I just don't know how. It seems…too big."

"It's possible that it might feel too big because you're trying to deal with this on your own when really it involves two people."

"You think I need to talk to Sherlock about it?"

"Communication is an vital part of any relationship. I think that a big part of the problems you've been having with Sherlock come down to lack of communication. It's something you would both need work on if you did decide to become involved with him."

John considered this for a moment, letting the validity of the words sink into him. He knew it was true, knew that pretty much every issue they'd ever had could have been solved by talking about it. But whilst he was all for that, Sherlock was certainly not the most open of people, to say the least.

"He's Sherlock, he doesn't talk about his feelings. Sometimes I'm not even sure that he has any," John answered dryly.

"If you really mean as much to him as I think you do then maybe he will try."

"It's not that he's not trying," John said uncertainly. "He just doesn't know how. He's never been in a relationship before. He's…not used to having someone around who he can trust."

Again he had the strange sensation of not quite knowing what he was saying yet knowing as he said the words that they were true.

"I think the question, John, is are you prepared to stick by him whilst he learns?"

* * *

Having poured himself a large drink of scotch, John settled into his armchair and flicked on the telly. He stared at it blankly for a few moments then, realising that he wasn't paying even the slightest bit of attention, flicked it back off again with a sigh. His mind was racing following that afternoon's therapy session. Would Sherlock ever really learn to be able to express his emotions, his thoughts, anything? Could he learn to open up, to trust John the way John trusted him? He'd thought a lot about these questions but had not been able to come up with any definitive answer. He had the feeling that whatever he decided would have to be the final decision, the final leap into or away from Sherlock's mad world and everything that went along with it.

Then all at once John realised that it was too late- he had leapt a long time ago. And all this time he had been falling. Would Sherlock be there to catch him? The answer to this particular question seemed to hit him with the force of a freight train. Sherlock had always caught him. And though it wasn't always in the way that John wanted, it was always motivated by Sherlock's very best intentions and that was what mattered. Sherlock did what he had to do and that wasn't always easy, yet he did it selflessly regardless of how it would affect his own world. They didn't always see eye to eye, and John knew he was kidding himself if he thought that was going to change, but they were always and unfailingly there for one another, no matter what. So of course he was going to forgive Sherlock. He was _always_ going to forgive him because he was his love and his world and his everything. He'd experienced life without Sherlock and he certainly didn't want to do it again. He knew that whilst it wasn't that simple, that's what it came down to. The rest they could work on…and they could do it together. Giving up now just wasn't an option. A minute later he had grabbed his black jacket and was out the door, letting it slam loudly behind him with a satisfying finality.

* * *

Sherlock pulled on his long, dark coat and headed hurriedly down the stairs of 221B. He'd been good for more than an entire week- had done what he suspected was the right thing to do and leave John to his thoughts, to let him come around in his own time. But now he was getting worried that he wouldn't. The thought made his chest oddly tight, like all the air in his lungs has been stolen, and he suspected that it had nothing to do with the fact that he'd smoked an entire packet of cigarettes over the last couple of days and everything to do with his panic that he had lost John forever. He still wasn't entirely sure how he had survived the week. He knew that had John been around he would have driven him mad, for he'd tried to distract himself with research and experiments and reading but had failed abysmally, instead spending most of his time wondering around the flat, fidgeting with things, throwing things, occasionally breaking things. He had gone through a brief period of anger, where he had caved and bought the cigarettes. He had smoked them triumphantly and briefly rejoiced in the fact that John wasn't around to tell him not to. But the satisfaction had departed as abruptly as it had come, leaving him feeling more empty than before. He'd even tried using alcohol to calm himself, as it always seemed to work for John. Without John there to share the bottle of red with him, as they'd done so many times before, it had been all too easy to consume the whole thing himself. Not surprisingly, the only thing he'd gained was neck ache from the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in and a persistent throb in his head the following morning.

Now it was time to face facts- Sherlock just couldn't live without John. His brain had been consistently clouded with vivid memories of his time with the man, particularly since he'd returned. More than once he'd caught himself thinking about the kisses and feverish touches they had shared on the very couch that he now lay on listlessly, about how badly he had wanted more, how badly he still wanted more. Eventually he had retired to the sofa and hadn't moved for an entire day, missing John until his heart went from throbbing to horribly empty and back again. He couldn't bring himself to regret his actions because his plan had worked - John was alive - but then again he wasn't entirely able to convince himself that he would have been able to go through with them if he had known it meant loosing John forever. It had always been a risk certainly, but he had somehow had so much faith in their bond that he had, perhaps naively, assumed that things would work out in the end. He'd sat up quickly, ignoring the dizziness brought on by the sudden rush of blood to his head, deciding that the time for waiting was over. Sherlock had never been one to give up on anything he had set out to do, and damned if he was going to give up John without a fight. If John wanted him out of his life he was going to have to force him out. As he raced down Baker Street, eyes scanning the road for a taxi, he desperately hoped that would not be John's final word. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he bumped into someone forcefully, and he turned with a slight scowl to apologise. And there before him stood John Watson, the expression on his face undoubtedly echoing the surprise on his own.

"John! I…I was just coming to see you…"

"I was coming to see you too," John interrupted, flustered.

"I know I said I wouldn't contact you, and I know you're still angry with me, but John, I just needed to see you…needed to tell you…"

He trailed off, looking at John desperately. John smiled ever so slightly, seeming to take pity on Sherlock's obvious struggle to find the right words.

"Well it must be important," he commented lightly. "I've never seen you lost for words before. Normally I can't get you to shut the hell up."

Now his smile was wider, more teasing, and Sherlock found himself grinning back despite himself. At that moment, the rain that had been threatening to fall all day broke through the thick barrier of clouds and sent a spontaneous torrent onto the busy London streets. Sherlock and John didn't so much as glance up, eyes fixed on each other as the people around them scattered, seeking shelter from the sudden downpour.

"I'm so sorry for everything I've put you through," Sherlock continued, moving closer and raising his voice to be heard over the heavy rain. "I know that it's not good enough and that I should have trusted you but I don't regret what I did because you're alive and safe. But if I said that was all I ever wanted I'd be lying. And I don't want to lie to you anymore, John."

John didn't reply for a moment but didn't look away, their eyes still furiously locked on one another.

"I want to move back to Baker Street."

And his heart melted as Sherlock's face transitioned from surprise to relief to what could only be described as delight. But he had more to say before he could truly bask in that perfect expression.

"But I have a few conditions. Firstly, you never keep me in the dark again, no matter what the circumstances. If we're going to do this we need to do it together. Secondly, you make more of an effort to tell me what's going on in that head of yours. I know it's hard for you but if we're going to be in a relationship it's the only way. It's all or nothing…just like it always has been."

Sherlock looked dazed for a moment as he took in everything that John had said, no doubt processing and analysing it at an alarming speed. John hoped that he hadn't scared him too much with the talk of them being in a relationship. But then Sherlock smiled, leaning in even closer.

"I accept your conditions," he said so quietly that John wouldn't have been able to hear him had he not been standing just a few short inches away.

John longed to close that gap, so he did. Because sometimes actions spoke louder than words. Their lips met, softly at first, but it wasn't long before the build up of emotions were pouring into the kiss, intensifying it quickly. Their tongues met sensuously and passionately as the rain dripped from their soaked hair onto their faces, mingling with the taste of their kiss. John slowly pulled away, coming to his senses enough to realise how ridiculous they were- kissing like a couple of teenagers in the middle of a busy London street, in a god damn monsoon-like rainstorm, no less. John laughed lightly and revelled in how good it felt.

"Let's go home, Sherlock."

The next thing John knew, they were back at Baker Street, kissing in the familiar and blissfully dry hallway. Sherlock pushed him against the wall in a way that was just the right mix of playful and forceful and John's breath hitched as Sherlock lent back in for another kiss, his weight pressing pleasantly against John. And it was amazing and all he'd been wanting and craving and it was oh so good and then…someone close by clearing their throat pointedly. They both stopped reluctantly and turned slowly to be greeted by the sight of Mrs Hudson standing outside her doorway with her arms folded. Her warm coat, handbag and umbrella suggested that she was just about to head out.

"Really boys, you've got a whole flat to whatever you like in, do you really need to do that here?" she questioned, and neither Sherlock nor John missed the smile that she was trying hard to conceal with a stern frown, or the hint of amusement and approval beneath her impatient tone.

"Apologies, Mrs Hudson, won't happen again," Sherlock replied quickly, taking hold of John by his jacket and pulling him insistently towards the stairs.

John weakly echoed Sherlock's sentiments, trying not to laugh, and allowed himself to be lead up the stairs. They managed to get the door closed behind them before they were back in each others arms, stripping one another of sodden coats and letting them fall to the floor unceremoniously. Sherlock kissed John again then pulled back, looking at him carefully, stroking wet hair back from his forehead.

"Should we…move this to the bedroom?" he asked almost shyly.

This time John didn't need to think at all.

"Oh god yes."


	9. Chapter 9

They fell onto Sherlock's bed, kissing hard, hands frantically exploring each others bodies.

"Clothes," John managed to gasp. "Too many clothes."

Sherlock grunted in agreement, making quick work of John's shirt buttons and peeling the damp fabric away from his skin. John's hands went to Sherlock's trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping them but unable to help himself from rubbing Sherlock's erection through the material. Sherlock moaned into John's mouth.

"Touch me, John."

He thrust up into John's hand, impatiently. John was very briefly torn between giving Sherlock what he wanted and making him wait, driving him mad with the anticipation, but decided against it, too aroused to be bothered with games right now. So he complied with Sherlock's request, slipping his hand inside both trousers and underwear to caress his hardness. They both moaned at the contact, mouths still kissing and sucking and nipping. John's growing arousal was making him desperate for some contact, some friction, anything, so he guided Sherlock's hand to the bulge in his jeans and groaned when Sherlock rubbed him hard. A moment later Sherlock had unbuttoned and unzipped him and was pulling his jeans and boxers down enough to wrap his long fingers around John's cock. John was groaning again, scrambling to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, touching his skin, breaking away from his lips to trail kisses down his neck. Sherlock gasped softly and John smiled against his skin and licked up his neck to the spot just behind his ear, feeling the gentle tickle of curls still damp with raindrops against his face.

"You like that?" John whispered hoarsely in his ear.

Sherlock shivered slightly and managed to nod, still grinding against the hand that John had wrapped around him. John moved against Sherlock as he kissed and licked at his neck before opening his mouth wider to suck at the soft flesh, leaving pale red marks. As Sherlock moaned again, his movements increasing in pace, it occurred to John that this wasn't going to last long. But he wasn't going anywhere and they had plenty of time to explore each other, to test each others limits. So he surrendered, capturing Sherlock's lips with his own, devouring Sherlock's moans, thrusting against him, craving more friction, craving release. They came within seconds of one another, John spurred on by Sherlock's strangled cry and his tight grip of John's hair.

For several minutes they just lay there recovering, then Sherlock twisted his head around and caught John's lips in a soft yet insistent kiss, his fingertips stroking the skin just above John's groin which was sticky with semen. He moved his hand up to suck on his own fingers, licking and tasting, and it wasn't long before John found himself getting hard again despite the release they'd both just had. John pulled him in for another deep kiss, finding the vague taste of himself lingering on Sherlock's tongue strange but not unpleasant. He trailed his fingers down Sherlock's spine and felt Sherlock shiver slightly in his arms.

"John," he whispered breathily, and waited till he had John's full attention. "I want you to fuck me."

John's breath hitched, caught off guard and ridiculously turned on by the words. He carefully brushed a curl back from Sherlock's face, considering the beautiful man beside him, feeling his vulnerability.

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock just nodded, his incredible eyes still dark with passion.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather fuck me?"

"There will no doubt be time for that later," Sherlock replied in the especially deep voice that drove John mad with desire. "Right now I want to feel you...I want to be close to you...I just want you, John. I need you. And I trust you completely, I want you to know that."

And he didn't even care how that sounded or about the fact that he never thought he had never before admitted to wanting, let alone needing anyone, ever. But this was John. John who changed all the rules, who made him feel things he didn't even know he was capable of. John didn't reply - instead kissing Sherlock softly but in a way that promised delicious things to come - and Sherlock hummed contently. They stayed that way for several moments, all gentle kisses and soft caresses, until things started heating up again. John pulled away, moving to finish removing Sherlock's trousers and boxers then his own, then straddling Sherlock's hips. He hardly knew what he was doing but it didn't seem to matter and he didn't feel nervous, just euphoric with a strong, sublime edge of adrenaline. He slowly stripped Sherlock of his shirt, kissing his way down his neck, his teeth grazing the sharp collarbones, his tongue dipping into the hollow where Sherlock's neck met his chest. Then he made his way further down, only now properly realising that they were both completely naked now, completely exposed to one another. He took a moment to admire Sherlock's body- the vast expanse of creamy flesh, the toned muscles, the pronounced hollows and hip bones. He trailed kisses down Sherlock's chest as Sherlock's fingertips carded through his hair, stopping at his left nipple and kissing it tenderly. Sherlock's soft moan turned into a hiss when John sucked it into his mouth, using his teeth ever so slightly to tease the sensitive flesh. He continued this as he allowed his hand to roam down Sherlock's body to his half hard cock, touching him lightly. He stroked him slowly for a few moments, moving his attentions to Sherlock's right nipple, and felt Sherlock's erection growing. John was also getting harder and harder, and he rubbed himself against Sherlock's thigh as he tightened his grip on Sherlock.

"John, please," Sherlock cried out brokenly.

John silenced him with a kiss and moved his hand to gently squeeze Sherlock's balls, then move further back, his fingers stroking softly.

"Sherlock, I'm going to need-"

"Top draw of the table beside you," Sherlock replied breathlessly.

John grinned at Sherlock's organisation but was at the same time very grateful for it, and he reached into the draw and found what he needed. When he turned his attention back to Sherlock he thought that he looked slightly nervous. John kissed him tenderly, sliding one hand into his hair.

"Are you sure you're ready for this? There's no hurry," John said gently, still massaging Sherlock's head slowly.

"I'm sure," he replied without hesitation, "it's just...new."

John nodded.

"It's new for me too."

Sherlock pulled him down and kissed him again, harder this time, grinding against John slightly and moving so his legs were spread further apart. John moved his hand back down, coating his fingers with the lubricant, and resuming his gentle stroking of Sherlock's entrance as he kissed him, Sherlock still moving against him. Sherlock moaned soft and low into John's mouth and John slowly, as carefully as possible, eased a finger inside him. Sherlock made a noise that was somewhere between pain and pleasure and kissed John hard, hand planted firmly on the back of John's head. John kissed back, his tongue exploring Sherlock's mouth as he slowly moved his finger, starting to feel Sherlock relax around him. He waited until Sherlock started grinding against him before adding a second finger, once again feeling Sherlock tense and then slowly relax. He dropped his head to Sherlock's neck again, kissing and nuzzling him as he moved his fingers inside Sherlock.

"Does that feel alright?" he whispered into Sherlock's hair.

"Feels good," he moaned incoherently, moving his hips against John's hand, wanting more.

John increased the pace of his movement, insanely turned on by Sherlock's moans, and continued until he was satisfied that Sherlock was ready for more. He gently withdrew his fingers and Sherlock whimpered slightly at the loss of contact.

John hadn't been with anyone since a few months before Sherlock had disappeared, his situation having proven to make dating almost impossible. And after he'd gone, John had struggled to even contemplate being with anyone else, something that had been confirmed very quickly the one or two times he'd attempted a date. He'd been tested since then and knew that he was clean. He started to quietly explain this to Sherlock, who reached up and kissed him before he could finish.

"I trust you."

John kissed him then pulled away, looking into Sherlock's eyes, scanning them for any trace of hesitation or panic. He found none. Just a haze of arousal, longing, a hint of nervous anticipation, and something more significant than all of these that he suspected was mirrored in his own face. Then slowly, carefully, John pushed into Sherlock, a wave of emotions rolling over him. It felt surreal, yet perfect and right and incredible.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and gripped John's shoulders hard. John stilled, allowing Sherlock to get used to the sensation.

"Okay?" he whispered, placing tiny kisses down Sherlock's brow, cheek and lips.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes still tightly closed, his breath heavy. He whimpered slightly and John kissed him, stroked his cheek.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked, worried.

Sherlock shook his head, opening his eyes to look into John's.

"I'm fine. I just need to adjust."

"Try to relax," John replied, stroking his hair and temple soothingly and placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

Then he moved away from his mouth to ghost tiny kisses down his neck and back up again, still holding him close. They stayed like that for a few more moments, staring into each others eyes, stroking each others faces, breathing and allowing the gravity of the moment to rest upon them. Then Sherlock slowly pushed up against John's hips, eliciting a groan from both of them as John slid deeper inside him. Taking his lead, John slowly started moving, keeping his strokes deep and rhythmic, observing Sherlock's reactions closely and feeling and sensing him relax. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by the surge of sensations, by the intensity of his feelings for the man beneath him, and he buried his face in Sherlock's neck with a soft whimper. Sherlock stroked his hair softly, kissing his temple.

"Are you okay?"

John nodded, pulling his head back up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"You're just so...beautiful."

Sherlock smiled up at him, tracing gentle patterns across John's shoulders.

"You're amazing, John Watson."

John kissed him deeply, increasing the pace of his movement slightly. Sherlock was moaning beneath him in the most delicious way, his breath now shallow, his eyes impossibly dark.

"Harder," he managed to gasp.

John complied, still watching Sherlock closely to make sure he was enjoying it.

"Oh god," Sherlock cried as John hit a very sensitive spot. "Right there, John. Please."

John thrust into him hard, his world crumbling around him at the sight of Sherlock coming so deliciously undone. He tried to lock it in his mind- the way Sherlock moved against him, the noise he made with each of John's thrusts, his dark eyes and parted lips, the heaving of his chest as he struggled to suck in enough air. He knew that Sherlock was rapidly approaching the edge and that he himself wouldn't be far behind him. He trailed his lips down Sherlock's neck once again, licking and sucking then biting softly. As he did so, he moved his hand down between them, stroking Sherlock's hard cock. Sherlock gasped at the contact, hand threading into John's hair.

"John, I'm going to..."

"Just let go, Sherlock. Give yourself to me," John whispered hotly into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock groaned desperately and John bit down on his neck. Then Sherlock came with a strangled cry of John's name, clinging to John and spilling into his hand, so beautifully and utterly out of control. It was enough to push John over the precipice and he was suddenly tumbling into blissful oblivion, shuddering as his orgasm tore through him ferociously, wave after wave of pleasure rippling over him as he came deep inside Sherlock.

They collapsed onto each other in a sweaty, satisfied tangle of limbs, breathing heavily. It was several long minutes before either of them moved or spoke, content to simply lie in each others arms. Eventually John conjured up enough energy to roll over and pull Sherlock onto him to rest on his chest. He let his fingers slip into Sherlock's hair, stroking the soft tendrils gently.

"That was…amazing," he said languidly, and smiled contentedly as he felt Sherlock move to place a few tiny kisses on his neck.

"Absolutely."

John could tell that the other man was exhausted, and he suspected that it wasn't just because of the physical exertion. He wondered, with a note of concern, when Sherlock had last slept.

"You should get some sleep," he said sleepily, fingers still spidering through Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock didn't reply right away, letting his hand move gently and rhythmically down John's chest almost unconsciously.

"Why are you so good to me, John?" he murmured into John's hair.

"Because you're a good man," John replied without having to think, his hand stilling.

Sherlock hesitated.

"What if I'm not? What if I disappoint you?" he asked quietly.

"You won't. Just be yourself and you won't."

"But I already have once before."

John kissed his temple lightly, stroking his hair again.

"Things will be different now. We're in this together. No secrets, no excuses. Yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispered in reply. "I promise."

And with that he snuggled into John's chest, allowing his heavy eyelids to slip shut finally, basking in the unfamiliar and terrifying yet strangely wonderful feeling of being loved.


End file.
